Boldur
Born and raised in the desert mountains known as The Spires, Bol'Dur (named after the human word for 'large rock') survived on minimal rations and the grand adventure stories his father used to tell him. Falling into banditry after his father passed, Bol left the profession upon hearing about the Vanwarim, a group of elves sworn to find an ancient relic and reunite their people. Working with them for a time, he parted ways on good terms when their aims diverged, and Bol felt that he needed to do more to help those who could not help themselves. Life before the Bandits The elf presses his back up against the naturally smooth granite which, despite the intense heat of the day, maintains its natural coolness. He enjoys the familiar feeling. Peering down the cliff face over his right shoulder, Bol’dur sees the dwarven convoy making slow progress through the canyon. A dozen armoured guards, another dozen men-at-arms and a few with crossbows; this wasn’t going to be easy, but the dwarves were just so slow that Bol liked his chances. Shifting his gaze over his other shoulder, Bol makes eye contact with his second, signalling the number of their lumbering prey. This second then uses the sun’s glare from his blade to flash the information to another nest of hidden bandits on the other side of the canyon. As he turns back to the dwarves, Bol’dur reclaims a quickly moving line of sweat with a slow lick of the lips – “You can’t waste anything out here.” His father’s words, “You can’t waste anything; not water, not time, not opportunity.” Eleven years and Bol still remembered the old elf vividly. Targel was only a couple of centuries old, but looking much older, as did nearly all of the crag elves. “If your face isn’t as marred as the crevasse you crawl out of, you’re not doing something right.” That was another one of his. He was full of little anecdotes and, what he believed were, pearls of wisdom like that. For all of his formative years, Bol’dur happily suffered every anecdote, every story and every moral with an eager ear – like most sons, Bol assumed his father was the smartest man in the world and, given the fact that it was just the two of them for a vast majority of the time, the young elf had no one to tell him different. The pair would make ends meet salvaging the bones and pelts of dead salamander drakes, hunt wild birds and do a little mining here and there. Targel even showed his son what little he knew of swordplay. For the most part, they lived up to their people's nomadic heritage, moving from place to place and making their own luck. Despite having very little of any consequence, the pair enjoyed a great decade and a half of good company and adventure; by the time he was fifteen, Bol had seen much of what the Spires had to offer. It was around that time that Targel started to show the signs of Crypt Lung, a debilitating disease brought on by an extended period mining for Cadmium Ore, undertaken by the elf in his youth. The father quickly became subsistent on his son, with Bol doing what he could to keep his father fed and comfortable, as they waited for the inevitable end. Not able to earn enough money for them both, Bol turned to petty crime to provide for the man who had given him so much. Over the months that followed, Bol found it increasingly easy, morally speaking, to take what he thought he needed. Eventually, Targel passed. Without a guide and lost in grief, Bol’dur lived a listless life for almost two years; taking enough to stay alive, but doing little to better his situation. He eventually fell in with a small group of elves who, like him, were without any real direction or means. Initially they worked together to ensure they had enough to eat and live, but as time went on they became more bold. They began targeting merchants who were moving goods between settlements. They were by no means the first organised bandits in the Spires, or any where near the best, but they made do. None of this was going through his head as he watched the slow moving dwarven convoy in the canyon below. They were obviously moving something important with so many armed guards, but Bol and his elves weren’t stupid enough to wonder what, or be tempted by it. No, they’d do well if they managed to make off with a few of their weapons, perhaps some armour or a small chest or two. Something is better than what they currently had, which was nothing. The dwarves disappeared beneath the crag below and Bol gave the signal; the elves swooped in and were gone before the dwarves could muster a true defence. A day and many miles later, Bol was selling his share of the raid in the market of Cetnya, one of the bigger outposts in Talons End. He’d rid himself of a dagger, helm and cloak, but there was something he was finding it hard to part with, despite the fact that it would have fetched a good price; a shield used by one of the dwarven men-at-arms, although it wasn’t dwarven. Bol thought he recognised the symbol and make – it was elven and ancient. That said, it didn’t have the wear of the very few others he’d seen. It looked almost new. His mind kept going to the rumours he’d been hearing, stories of a group of elves brought through time from the ‘good old days’, when his people were united; when the phoenix king ruled and the elves stood fast against the chaos. His learned cynicism led him to dismiss the rumours as just that, but they kept cropping up in the back of his mind. He made preparations to head north and join again with his brothers and sisters in crime, but as he made for the edge of the settlement he saw a young elf sitting in the dirt with her father. The father hugged his daughter close and was telling her a story, something Targel used to do to keep Bol’s mind from his hunger. Bol simultaneously saw both his future and his past in that image; the weight of shield on his back suddenly made itself apparent and, without any more thought, Bol turned south to search for a rumour. “You can’t waste anything; not water, not time, not opportunity.” Thetis' trial Bol’Dur rubbed his eyes and groaned, betraying his frustration. His vision darted spasmodically through the trees, but all he saw was more forest, “Where are they?” he growled to himself. Inside, his anger was directed elsewhere, ‘another bloody forest. Don’t they realise yet that that I didn’t grow up in the blasted trees!’ He was searching for Oranna and Ceridwen; they’d become separated, what, an hour ago? Two hours? Bol had lost track of time and he was fairly convinced he was going around in circles. Furthermore, he wasn’t entirely sure he was alone; though he grew up in the mountains he was still an elf, and he could feel eyes watching him – judging him. He didn’t have the opportunity to investigate further however, as he found himself face to face with a tall, sandstone wall. It was massive, made from great stones carefully and expertly built together, and surely couldn’t have been missed. Confused, he put his hand out and felt its roughness; it was certainly tangible. His feet twisted in the sand he was now standing in as he attempted to look back the way he came – instead of trees however, desert stretched out before him and below him, nestled like a jewel in the Valley of Kings, the city of al-Rashid glistened against the night. Bol’s senses began to come again to him, ‘But if that’s al-Rashid, then this wall is...’ Bol cast his eyes skyward, to the shining brass towers of Ishkandar, seat of the White Council and palace home of King Abiyaad. A rope suddenly came crashing down onto Bol’s head and, looking out across the wall, the elf could see a fair dozen Desert Vulture bandits climbing walls; one, a few feet up, was whispering down to Bol and urging him to follow. They were actually doing it; Bol had always wanted to attempt to infiltrate Ishkandar under cover of darkness, but the Desert Vulture elders had always rebuked him, saying it was too dangerous, and yet here he was. Without hesitation Bol began to climb, his weight all but forgotten in his enthusiasm. As he made his way up the wall, the face of Abiyaad came into his mind - how he detested that man. Abiyaad’s persecution of his people was enough to earn him the enmity of many who called the Spires home, but Bol had even more cause to want him dead. All of his hours whilst on watch at the camp, as well as many other waking moments, were spent dreaming of what he would do to that human if he ever got his hands on him. For Bol, the fires of revenge had burned hotter than the desert sands, and now that revenge was closer than it had ever been; his mouth almost salivated at the prospect. By the time he’d reached the parapets, the last guard was being silenced by his comrades. It was going to be a long climb to Abiyaad’s chambers, but one way or another Bol’s wish for retribution was to end that night. For their part, Bol and the other Vultures found moving through Ishkandar relatively easy. The night guards were surely not expecting infiltration and the maps it had cost the lives of many of their allies to secure were accurate. It wasn’t until they reached the base of Abiyaad’s tower that they found their first true impediment; a point man had not timed his run properly and was discovered by a patrol. The alarm went out immediately. To continue meant certain death, and the Vultures had an escape route planned for just such an occasion; indeed, a few were already travelling that way. Bol’s feet remained planted however, and a few others crouched with him. Bol’Dur spoke earnestly, “If we leave now, we’ll never get this chance again. Not for a hundred years. This is our one opportunity to put that tyrant to a blade.” One of the Vultures wasn’t convinced, “If we don’t leave right away we’ll be cut off – they’ll slaughter us.” “Death today, or tomorrow at the hands of the Council, or in a few months time from thirst – take your pick. If we kill Abiyaad tonight, we –“ “Another takes his place!” A different Vulture interjected. In some recess of Bol’Dur’s heart, he knew his comrade spoke the truth. Within the White Council there were others just as cunning and ruthless as Abiyaad who would step onto his throne the moment his life left him. At that moment however, it didn’t matter; Bol’s hands were tingling with the thought of using his blade to end Abiyaad’s life. The adrenaline became spite, “You’re a coward. Go. Run back to camp and live under his thumb until age and weariness takes you.” With that, Bol left, darting into Abiyaad’s tower before they had another chance to convince him otherwise. As he wound his way up the spiral staircase, Bol’Dur could hear the guards rushing up from below; their armour made them slow but the elf would not have an eternity to finish his mission. The top of the stairwell flattened out and two guards, previously standing on either side of a large, jewelled door, immediately began to move for him. For his part, he would not be slowed; fuelled by bloodlust Bol charged forward, his two-handed sword ‘Strix’ held aloft. The encumbered humans were slow, and Bol managed to separate one from his sword-arm relatively quickly. His eagerness left him open however and, despite his best effort to keep moving, he felt the curved scimitar of the other guard drag down his spine. Crying in pain, Bol decided it was best to keep going and used his momentum to drag Strix around to the other guard; whilst he didn’t manage to sever the guard’s waist, he left enough of an impression to ensure he would no longer be a hindrance. Dragging himself to his feet, Bol checked to see how deeply he’d been cut – while he wasn’t a healer by trade he could see that it was deep enough; not enough however, to end his night. Hearing the armour clanking up the stairwell made Bol forget all about the wound, and with a renewed vigour he tore open the doors, revealing a lavishly decorated suite. Cool, night air blew in through the gaping arched windows, causing all of the draped satins and silks to twist gently like dancing snakes. The tiled floor, a mosaic tribute to the God of the sun dipped in the middle, separating a circular seating pit strewn with brightly coloured pillows, scent jars and oil lamps. Standing on the other side of this space, tall, broad and proud, was king Abiyaad; though his ebony hair and cropped beard showed specks of grey, he himself showed no signs of his venerable age. His eyes, dark and unmoved, were narrowed on Bol, and at his side was a long, slender blade, clearly of exquisite make, “I suppose you think you’re brave.” Bol tore down a nearby silk and, closing the great doors, tied it around the handles. It wouldn’t keep the guards out forever but it would certainly buy him some time. Raising strix once again, the elf strode toward the human, “No talking.” Unflinching and unmoving, Abiyaad continued, “I don’t have a right to know my assassin’s name?” Bol was onto him, dragging Strix trough the air in a powerful downward attack. Abiyaad whipped up his own blade, deflecting the attack and taking a step away. He continued, “Nothing but business I see. A hired man? What are they paying you?” Bol charged forward again, slashing wildly with his blade. Abiyaad was no slouch with his own weapon and, though it was much lighter, he managed to turn Bol’s away and continue to step back or to the side, “No, you’re not a hired man. I can see it is your eyes; feel it in your enmity. I have wronged you somehow.” Bol suddenly screamed in frustration – his entire being wanted to pierce this human’s flesh with his sword; more wild attacks followed, but Abiyaad (with some effort) continued to turn them aside. Bol’Dur’s anger eventually proved fruitful however, with a strong blow causing the human to stumble slightly on the edge of the central pit. It was all the invitation Bol required; leaping forward the elf brought Strix down and down again, favouring the uneasy side of Abiyaad’s defence. To his credit, the king of nine deserts continued to maintain an effective defence for a few more blows, however it was only a matter of time. Bol was looking into the human’s eyes when this realisation came to the king; the reaffirmation of his own mortality, the understanding that he was not going to see the sunrise, the realisation that this elf was going to skewer him on his blade – Bol savoured the image, drinking it in. Foolishly, his intense focus left Abiyaad with the opportunity for surprise and, picking up a burning oil lamp, the desperate human threw it at Bol. The flaming oil spraying across the room and Bol felt the scorching oil splash across his leather, trickling through the folds and finding his skin. It took the elf a few moments to pat himself down and extinguish the flames, but that was all the king required – when Bol’Dur was ready again to continue, he came to see for the first time that it was not merely he and the king in the room. Three women were also present; three concubines chained to one wall, their cries suddenly very clear to the elf. Abiyaad held the hair of one of them in his hands, his blade at her throat, “Make one move, just one, and I slit her throat.” Bol stepped forward, “You can’t bluff me, you fil…” Before he could take a second step, Abiyaad had slit the girls neck; blood quickly began to gush from the wound, her cries becoming a gargle as she slumped down in her chains. The cries of the other two redoubled as they both mourned for their friend and feared for their lives simultaneously. Abiyaad wasted no time in putting his blade to the next woman; Bol stopped moving. At this time there was a sudden slam against the door – the guards were throwing themselves against it, and it would not last long. Bol’s heart beat faster than it ever had, and the king was breathing rapidly, “You could kill me, I’ve no doubt, but by the time you crossed this distance I will have gutted them both.” Bol wore a countenance of intense focus, but inside his mind was a crashing sea of thoughts; he was envisioning every possible way to reach the human, but each scenario ended with the death of the two women. The king had shown he had no compunctions with killing them, and a part of Bol began to wonder what they really meant to him; two women he’d never met, women he was likely never to have met in the future. Further, concubines to the king – they were likely just as twisted as he was, revelling in the opulence of the palace, buying into the fetid debauchery of the White Council – as much a part of it as the king himself! Bol’s weight shifted forward; this line of thinking was going to drive Strix home and Abiyaad would not live long. However, before his foot lifted from the ground and as the slamming of the door grew louder, he stopped. The picture he’d built up of these women, the one that would have let him stride forward and end his vengeance quest suddenly came crashing down when he looked into their eyes; the intense sorrow that swam there proved that this palace was not their home, this king was not their friend, and their deaths were not justified. They were slaves, like so many before them, like many Bol had known. They were the very reason that Bol was in the tower. He looked back up at the Abiyaad, whose teeth were gritted and his eyes focussed – there was no compassion in that face, only a deep desire to hurt, to kill, to control. Bol had wanted to end that tonight, and for a moment his anger almost had him leaping forward again, but the cries of the prisoners stopped him – he couldn’t kill the tyrant. The price, the lives of these two innocents, was too high. Bol didn’t barter with a life; that’s why he was different from Abiyaad. For the first time since the desire had burned in him, Bol came to the realisation that Abiyaad was not his destiny after all, and that the king would live and he surely die. The understanding welled up in him like a great wave which threatened to break through his skin like a dam wall, but before he could react to it he was swamped by the guards who had broken through the door. Their blows and kicks sent him quickly to the floor and, as he rolled onto his back, the last thing he saw was Abiyaad’s now smiling face standing over him, before his boot came down, sending the elf to oblivion. That was when the elf woke up; not gracefully or slowly, but suddenly and with a spasm. He lurched to his feet and stumbled backward, finding the trunk of a great tree. His gaze darted around, looking for palace guards or attacking kings, but there was nothing but the trees. Very slowly his breathing and his heart rate began to slow; it had all been a dream, no, a vision – it had seemed so real, he could almost still smell the scented oils and feel the burn from the lamp. His mind raced with the images, trying to piece together what happened; he came to remember where he was – the Black Talon forest, and that he was on a mission… a task for the… the Vanwarim! He remembered that he had not seen the deserts of home for some time, and whilst he had dreamed of doing so, he had never scaled the walls of Ishkandar. He sunk to his knees, finding the solid round soothing and anchoring. Ceridwen and Oranna! Their faces suddenly came to his mind; he’d been separated from them and had to find them again. Rising again to his feet, a curious sound filtered through the trees, swimming into his ears. At first he thought it was some strange bird call, but realised that it was… singing? Well, what could pass for singing in any case; as the nearer it came the baser it sounded until, when the singer could finally be seen making his way toward Bol through the trees, an army of tone-deaf cats at feeding time would have sounded more pleasant. Still, the tune was light and Bol was comforted to see another person; this one was an old man, bent and dishevelled, who clearly knew the forest well. He approached Bol’Dur without caution and, when he was a fair ten feet away, he turned a crooked, blue eye toward the elf, “You Bol’Dur?” Bol straightened, a little surprised, “I am.” “Well, ‘course you are. Who else would you be, wandering around here? She wouldn’t have let anyone else through.” The man seemed to be talking to himself at this point, and Bol wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about. The man looked back up, “Well, c’mon, looks like you passed. We should get back to town.” “Wait, no, I’m looking for some friends…” “Two lady-folk? Yeah, they came through already – you’ve taken the longest.” The man gave Bol a knowing wink (though Bol wasn’t sure what it was he was supposed to have known), before indicating the way he came with his head, “C’mon, there’s food and answers waitin’ for ya. Don’t dawdle.” Though still confused and wary, Bol followed the man. Together they walked for quarter of an hour until, finally, they came to the Black Talon village. Life as a Bandit Bol’dur sidled into the glade, glancing about himself as if expecting assault at any moment. All that assailed him however was quiet birdsong, a gentle perfume and a few dappled rays of sunlight passing through the canopy. It was about as far away from Bol’s home as he could imagine, but he was having to get used to a lot of new things now that he was a Bandit of the Black Talon. It wasn’t until she spoke that Bol’dur saw Margery Cortez, current head of the Treecallers, tending to a bush across the thin stream that parted the glade. “Bol’dur; I appreciate you coming to see me.” The mountain elf suddenly found himself uncomfortable; he wasn’t one for pleasantries, and he’d hoped that whatever this meeting was about, it would be over quickly. “Of course ma’am. What, uh, what can I do for you?” She turned, her broad and sincere smile almost taking all attention from her mutilated right eye socket, “Please, sit with me.” She indicated a ring of large stones next to the stream; Bol’dur did what he was told and she sat by him , “Hal tells me you have signed up for the Claws, no?” Her Asturan accent hadn’t lost any of it’s strength over the years. “Yes. I’m looking forward to starting. I have a lot of ideas about ways that the Bandits could improve their tactics; their strength in the field.” “Have you perhaps considered coming here, to the Treecallers?” Bol’dur looked at her as if she’d just asked him if he’d considered the rocks they were sitting on as a potential food source; a single raised eyebrow, an uncomfortable shift in weight, a sharp intake of breath, “No ma’am. I hadn’t. The Treecallers are… not where my expertise lie. I am a fighter.” Margery shrugged and stood up, strolling casually to peruse the leaves of a nearby tree “P’raps you are, and then… p’raps there is more to you than that.” It wasn’t a question and Bol’dur, despite himself, was mildly insulted at the insinuation that fighting wasn’t good enough – in many cases, it was the best and most honest thing an Althean could do. “With respect, I think I’m the better judge here.” She turned to face him again, “One can sometimes be so close to a thing they cannot fully grasp it, no?” Bol’dur tensed; this was starting to sound too much like a conversation that was going to continue for longer than was necessary. It was time to end it; he stood up, “I have been a fighter for over sixty-years. The Jackals were standing up to corruption back home before you were born; looting, thieving, ambushing, infiltrating – we warred against the White Council all that time, and in that time I learned what it takes to be a competent combatant, and it’s not praying and kowtowing to some forest spirit; it’s steel, and it’s blood, and it’s fellowship.” Margery was unphased, “And yet now you are here. You fought against the White Council, yes, but now the Jackals are no more, and the Council are still subjugating the Spires, no? Am I wrong?” Bol’dur was silent, his face stern. “We ‘av a saying in Astura… uh, adaptarse o morir – ‘adapt or die’. Som’sing you would know from growing up in the desert. ‘Ow long can you keep banging your ‘ead on the same brick walls?” Bol’dur saw what she was saying, but the Treecallers? How could a bunch of priests and sages help him develop as a warrior? They were his antithesis. Eventually, all he could manage was, “I don’t do magic.” Margery laughed, but Bol’dur didn’t see what was funny. “You think we just sit around and chant at each other all day? Magic is a part of what we do, but it is a small part.” She moved up to Bol’dur, closer than he was comfortable with, stared at him frankly and put a hand on his chest, “We are the ’eart of the Bandits. We ‘elp them grow. All the other branches are so concerned with what is going on outside, with ‘ow we are affecting the world; the Treecallers are concerned with what is affecting us. No malnourished tree bears fruit Bol’dur.” She smiled before turning away, back to the tree she was tending when the elf arrived, “Think about it, at the very least.” Bol’dur said nothing, making his way back toward the village. Even before he had left the glade however, some part of him knew he’d be back. The realisation grew in him until, eventually, there was only one thing to do; curse angrily to himself, “Gods damn it!”